Varick's air had not altered. But for all its grimness he returned the greeting cheerfully.
"Hello, Davy!"
Then he turned to Bab. As Bab looked at him she saw the hardness fade from his face. A look of sadness, of regret took its place, as if in that glimpse of her, his first for days, his resolution, whatever it may have been, had died.
"Why, Bab," he said, his eyes eloquent now; "you are lovely!"
Bab offered a limp hand to him.
"How do you do, Mr. Varick?" she returned.
A hobbledehoy could not have done worse. Self-conscious, nettled that she had been so awkward, she snatched away her hand. Varick, however, seemed too absorbed to notice. Then to her relief she again heard David speak. "It's good of you to have come, Bayard," he said hesitatingly. "I didn't know you would."
Varick looked at him queerly.
"I suppose you know I wasn't asked," he returned slowly, his tone deliberate.
"Not asked?"